


Contract: A Thief in the Shadows

by Seuikune



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witcher, Angst, Eventual Fluff, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Witcher AU, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 02:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seuikune/pseuds/Seuikune
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield is a Witcher by trade, an enhanced professional monster hunter, and finds himself accepting a rather unusual contract to slay a vanishing creature.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am suuuuuper happy to have finally posted this chapter! It took ages, between working and being a potato playing games (Overwatch owns my soul), but it is finished and I hope you all enjoy it ~
> 
> This is my first fic that I've posted online, so let me know what you think! If you don’t want to leave a comment here, you can send me an anon message on [Tumblr](http://www.seuikune.tumblr.com) if you'd prefer, or y'know, give me a follow!
> 
> There will be fluff eventually, I promise, I just wanted to do a bit of world building and tbh I love the Witcher and all its lore etc. I have no idea how many chapters there will be, I'm just kinda going with the flow right now lol
> 
> Thank you to [Ciara](http://www.erenfanclub.tumblr.com) for being a wonderful beta, I am really grateful for all your help ❤⃛ヾ(๑❛ ▿ ◠๑ )  
> And thank you to [Chu](http://www.ohthatboychu.tumblr.com) for helping me keep it Witchery
> 
> Also, a list of explanations for Witcher specific terms can be found at the end of the chapter in case you're not clued up

Dusk painted the sky with rich hues of amethyst and ruby as Thorin drew near to his destination, thick orange clouds swirling overhead like dragon’s fire. The air was imbued with mellifluous choruses of bird song, accompanied by the gentle babbling of a nearby river that meandered through the lowland. A sheer, rocky cliff face rose to the left of the beaten track he followed, signalling the edge of the plains, and Thorin could just make out the fringes of a forest canopy from below. To the right, grassland stretched for miles, populated with a myriad of flora, small thickets and isolated hamlets, and little hills rolled away to reveal snow-capped mountains that pierced the horizon.  

The setting sun, though blazing in colours, offered limited warmth to oppose the autumnal air that nipped at his exposed skin. He tugged his fur lined cloak closer to his neck and jaw, as warm breath from his horse condensed into a foggy plume with every exhalation.

He would be glad once he had set up camp for the night around a roaring fire with a belly full of mead. It had been a long trek and Thorin could feel his stallion start to heave and tremble with unrest beneath him.

Taking a left at a sharp fork in the trail, Thorin urged his mount onwards and entered dense woodland, beginning the steady incline towards the village that lay nestled within. In place of the rapidly disappearing sun, lit torches illuminated the dirt track that twisted and turned amongst the foliage; great trees of birch, alder, and oak standing unyielding against the increasing buffeting wind. Further ahead, flickering lights within the village outlined the silhouettes of half a dozen buildings with a soft amber glow, and Thorin would catch glimpses of the village folk between the umbrage as they hurried to complete errands before nightfall.  
  
Thorin slid down from the saddle and winced as boots hit solid ground for the first time in hours. They’d ridden hard for miles, only stopping intermittently when the horse required watering or when the need arose to relieve himself, and now his muscles screamed with every movement.

He gingerly led the steed to an area with sparser trees, secured the reins to a sturdy looking trunk, and untacked the horse. Then, gathering a sizeable bundle of wood and debris from the forest floor, he erected a pyre for kindling.

 _Igni!_  
  
A pyrokinetic flare burst forth from the magical sign, formed by his left hand, and the wood instantly caught afire in a flash of burning heat and light. Thick clouds of smoke and glowing embers wafted up and over the campsite, a heavy, oaky scent permeating the air as the hungry fire licked and engulfed the dry timber. The smell would linger on his clothes and bedroll for days but it was a comforting incense, one of the few things that reminded him of his early childhood before the Trial of the Grasses.

He was so young when he had been conscripted, barely a child of eleven. Memories of before that time were hazy, only small fragments remained; the smell of forests and burning wood, a firm hand on his shoulder, the taste of freshly baked honey cakes--

Anxious nickering from his horse tore Thorin away from his thoughts and he realised that the last of the sun's rays had all but faded now. Oranges and reds had melted away into an inky expanse of obsidian, flecked with thousands of luminous silver stars that glinted in and out of existence beside a waxing crescent moon. Midnight would soon be upon him.

Darkness swiftly enveloped the forest, save for the dancing flames that cast a small protective circle of light around the camp. In the distance, the haunting song of wolves echoed, melancholic and reverberating from every direction. They were a common threat across the continent, stalking mountainous woodland abundant with deer and boar. Seldom did they hunt near settlements, lest a pitchfork pierce their flesh and their furs be donned as coats.

A lone traveller on the outskirts, however, was a different matter entirely.

Five of the beasts circled the campsite, every step carefully chosen to minimise noise as they kept their distance, remaining hidden from view. The cracking of twigs underfoot and the low rumbling growls were barely audible to humans, but to Thorin it was as clear and loud as if they were right beside him. He could sense the bloodlust in their snarls; the air was saturated with the trembling desire to attack, to kill, to feed.

Fire was regularly harnessed as a deterrent towards wolves. They feared the consuming flames, but this pack’s behaviour was aberrant. They were neither dissuaded by the campfire, nor did they show signs of trepidation. It wasn’t until one member broke rank and dared to prowl nearer, that Thorin realised this was no ordinary pack of heedless beasts.

The ashen haired she-wolf stalked low to the ground, yellow teeth bared and cunning crimson eyes fixated on her prey. Thick guard hairs on her underbelly brushed against the vegetation as she drew closer. She was twice the size of even the largest grey wolf and an array of deep pink and off-white scars crisscrossed her pale muzzle. Where patches of fur were thinning, prominent muscles of iron flexed and rippled with every calculated movement.

Wargs were notoriously dangerous and tenacious, and were rightfully revered amongst common folk. Even the bravest hunters were hesitant to take one on, especially in instances where they were the alpha of a pack.

Thorin slowly crouched to the floor, his hand hovering by the hilt of his steel blade, eyes locked with the those of the beast. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, heightening his senses, his pulse ringing loud in his ears.

His horse, now fully aware of the wolves’ presence, roared in fear and tugged violently on its reins, desperate to free itself and escape. Switching her attention to the animal, the she-wolf licked her maw and snapped at the steed, a sly glint in her eyes as she approached. A tied up mount would make for a quick and easy meal, and the pack had not fed in days. Hackles raised and saliva dripping in anticipation, the predator lunged for the jugular with a feral snarl, ready to plunge her fangs into warm flesh.

In a flash of movement, Thorin drew his sword and sliced the blade across the wolf’s flank, cutting like lightning and knocking the beast off balance. She looked startled for a split second but quickly regained her footing, shifting her focus back onto him. He darted past the warg and baited her into a smaller clearing just northwards of the campsite, away from his supplies and only form of transportation. Quickly turning on his heel to face his opponent, Thorin readied his stance and adjusted his grip on the pommel. Not too rigid, but loose enough so that he could swing the sword in fluid arcing motions.

The cries of the panic stricken stallion filled the forest as the beast and man clashed in a deadly dance. Blinded by pain and rage, the warg repeatedly lunged and snapped at Thorin, becoming more desperate with every failed attempt. Thorin leapt and dived about her, countering with a flurry of whirling sweeps, but parried one strike too late, and large canines sank into his sword arm. The sheer force of her bite would have knocked him backwards, had he not braced himself and dug his heels into the earthy soil.

Flames suddenly sprang forth from his hand and singed the wolf’s muzzle. His attacker recoiled and howled in distress, pawing at her face to extinguish the blaze. The pungent smell of burning hair and skin filled his lungs, but it was a scent that Thorin had grown accustomed to during his fights.

A member of the pack advanced towards the warg in support, but a low threatening growl sent the smaller wolf scampering back through the trees.

As she stood disorientated by the magic, Thorin seized the opportunity to plunge his steel blade into her shoulder. The she-wolf struggled momentarily before falling limp against the blade, her fiery crimson eyes dulling as blood stained her ashen fur.

The fight was over.

Returning to camp, bruised and weary, he cast a protective ring of _Yrden_ around the perimeter, and calmed the steed’s nerves with the sign of _Axii_. The remaining pack members would still be nearby, but they were alpha-less now, and Thorin had shown he was a not just a simple traveller. He could rest easy.

As he prepared for sleep and removed the heavier pieces of outer armour, he noticed that blood had begun to seep through the material underneath. It was only a few drops yet it concerned Thorin nonetheless. Leather gloves worn beneath steel vambraces could protect against most incoming blows, though he doubted the armourer had anticipated that a warg would puncture their work. On the next passing through town, he’d be sure to stop by an armoursmith and have his pieces repaired and reinforced, just incase a warg pack ever decided to test their luck again.

He propped his swords and armour against the trunk beside the horse and unloaded his travel bag, removing a tightly coiled sleep sack and a bottle of amber coloured liquid. To the untrained eye, one might mistake the drink for whiskey, but this was Swallow, a powerful healing potion that was deadly to the unmutated. Named after the beautiful spring bird, it accelerated regeneration, forcing wounds to scab and heal faster than normal. The taste, however, left much to be desired.

Drowsily unfurling his bedroll alongside the pyre, Thorin settled down and took a long swig of the potion. A brew of dwarven spirit, celandine, and drowner brains, the initial sweet floral aroma was overshadowed by the bitter, almost pungent aftertaste. He grimaced as he discarded the empty glass vial and wiped away any remaining residue with the back of his hand. Glad of the soft furs beneath his weary body and the radiating heat like kisses against his skin, he soon began slipping in and out of consciousness, letting the welcome sleep envelop his body.

From between the surrounding foliage, two orb-like eyes, the colour of acorns, watched the sleeping man with what can only be described as curiosity. The individual made no sound as it observed the camp, not even the light whisper of its breath could be heard. After a few minutes, when the unknown watcher was presumably satisfied, it crept back through the undergrowth towards the village and vanished into the blackness of the forest.

 

_______________________________________

 

 

 _Good people,_  
_Please take pity on us village folk, who are haunted by a phantom thief._  
_Something, neither man nor beast, has been has been stealing away food stores and belongings_  
_in the dead o’ night. Surely, poverty and misery awaits us if this pillaging is to continue._  
_We have gathered what coin we have. If you can track and kill the monster that plagues us, you will be rewarded for your work well done. Seek Bard if you wish to know more._ _  
_ – Sigrid

 

The weathered parchment hung loosely nailed to the village message board, the contract messily scrawled across the page. The paper was cold to touch, still damp from the autumn morning dew. Thorin hummed out a low, contemplative noise as he idly fingered a leather satchel at his side, a few florens and orens jingling together at his touch.

His coin purse was awfully empty as of late. Work was hard to come by outside of the main cities, even more so for a Witcher. Whilst folk were more than happy to let others take care of their problems, many showed caution when approaching Witchers. Propaganda, spread primarily by the Eternal Fire, had scared people into thinking they were just heartless mercenaries, who would steal away your children if you could not pay their fees.

Out of the last five contracts he had accepted, only three had resulted in payments, and meagre ones at best. For the remaining two, Thorin had agreed to food and board in exchange for his services, and, after saving the life of a young farmer, had invoked the Law of Surprise, acquiring himself his current horse.

Bright golden eyes flickering over the words, he sighed softly and rolled his shoulders, shifting the weight of the two swords on his back to a more comfortable position. Despite Swallow healing the puncture wounds on his arm, he still felt quite stiff and sore.

“Steel and silver… You’re a Witcher!”

The sound of the voice prompted Thorin to abruptly turn on his heel, chainmail and blades clinking at the sudden movement.

Before him stood a young woman clothed in blues and greens, her mousey brown hair scraped back messily into a loose bun. Although her dress was beginning to fray in patches, Thorin noted the fabric was fitted and of good quality, with simple floral designs sewn above the hems.

She clasped her hands behind her as she rocked up and down on the balls of her feet, an inquisitive smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Did you see the contract? Are you here to see Da?” the girl pressed excitedly.

Before Thorin could open his mouth to speak, she interjected, “Oh please say you are! We really need your help.”

“Kid, slow down. I--”

“Sigrid. My name’s Sigrid. And I’m not a kid,” she huffed, hands defiantly resting on her hips.

“Okay, Sigrid. I assume that ‘Da’ is the Bard mentioned in the contract?” He quickly glanced back at the board to reaffirm he’d given the correct name. “You’re the one who wrote it?”

“Mhm. Da’s the chief of this village and he asked me to write it for him, on account of him being busy trying to catch the thief and all!” Sigrid stated proudly. “I’ll take you to him, he should be by the old ruins.”

She motioned for Thorin to follow as she skipped ahead along the dirt track, brimming with enthusiasm.

Bracken and twigs lay across the path towards the ruins, covering potholes and marshy areas that posed a hindrance to horses and wagons. Planks had also been pushed into the sloping landscape to create steps, making the climb and descent easier for the village folk. Stone paving and buildings were traditionally only found in larger towns and cities, where flush nobles lavished their homes and streets with expensive materials and furnishings.

Out in the villages, things were different.

The rectangular huts were built entirely from local wood, with golden thatched roofs, and simple log fences that separated the land. Windows were open spaces in the walls that could be closed with shutters, and the front doors were of a basic design, erected in a similar fashion of wood and iron. Nestled between the houses, paddocks with livestock and gardens ripe with vegetables and herbs provided the residents with their livelihood.

The meandering path led them north-east of the village boundary. On an island in the centre of an expansive lake, stood the ruins of a derelict watchtower. Many of the walls had been reduced to dust and rubble, and the pier that jutted out into the lake was rotten and collapsing. A single boat was anchored by the lakeside and bobbed gently along the waves that lapped the shore.

“Wait here, okay?”

He nodded in agreement as Sigrid jogged over to the pier, calling out to her father.

As he lingered by the water, Thorin stared at the watchtower remains with admiration. He had a fond interest in architecture, and could visualise what the tower would have looked like in its glory days. It would have stood as a bastion against enemy attacks, tall and unwavering, surviving assault after assault. Some centuries ago, the tower was most likely abandoned during one of the countless human wars that ravaged the country, and the stronghold fell into disrepair and ruin.

It reminded him of Kaer Aur, the fortress where he was trained to be a Witcher, abandoned not long after his mutations were complete.

“Da! Da! Wake up!” Sigrid laughed as she sat on the side of the pier, furiously rocking the boat with her dangling legs.

The sleeping man suddenly jolted upright, flinging off a book that had been resting on his chest, a disgruntled look crossing his face.

“How many times must I tell you--” Bard’s voice caught in his throat as he glimpsed the armoured man watching from the shore.

From this distance, it was impossible to distinguish any emblems or sigils on the armour. He wore leather and mail of silvers, blacks, and blues -none of the colours of the Nilfgaardian or Redanian army- and his long dark hair was braided in sections with mythril clasps.

“Sigrid?” he questioned, voice barely above a whisper as he kept a watchful eye on the stranger. His body felt heavy and immovable, as if it had hardened into lead, weighed down with the increasing feeling of unease.

“He’s here to take the contract. He’s a Witcher,” she stated matter-of-factly and outstretched a hand to help Bard out of the boat.

As he hesitantly gripped her soft warm skin, a little tighter than necessary, the wave of dread dissipated. Since the passing of his wife, a seed of constant worry had been planted in the forefront of his mind. Juggling between being the chieftain of the village and a father to three children, Bard had learned to assume the worse of each situation. But Sigrid was a smart girl, quick-witted and resourceful, and a good judge of character above all. If she trusted this stranger, he would at least hear the man out.

The Witcher strode forward to greet them as they came ashore from the pier.

“Thorin Oakenshield, at your service,” he introduced and dipped his head.

A fleeting look of surprise broke Bard’s deadpan expression, but he quickly regained his composure and cleared his throat, “Bard. And you’ve already met my daughter Sigrid.”

He hadn’t expected a Witcher to be so… courtly.

“Come, Master Witcher. Let us discuss the matter of this contract someplace more comfortable.

 

_______________________________________

 

 

Thorin set down his empty tankard on the table that separated himself from Bard. Sigrid had been busy in the kitchen preparing refreshments for their guest, and hurried out with a second full pitcher of mead and a plate of honey cakes. She refilled their cups, took a cake for herself and settled down on a stool beside her father, happily munching on the snack.

A hearth merrily crackled and burned beside them, chasing away the chilling dampness that clung to the morning air. The sky was grey and overcast, and little natural light filtered in through the open windows. Dancing flames of orange and red provided welcome warmth and luminosity in the cramped lodging, as tendrils of smoke twisted and danced outside.

Despite the crowded room, Bard’s home was one of the larger houses in the village, close to the local tavern, with a reasonably sized vegetable patch and pig pen. There wasn’t much in the way of possessions, save for a few trinkets and an ornamental bow hanging from the dining room wall, but it felt homely and well looked after. Beside the front door, an arrangement of sweet-scented flowers lay in front an oil painting of his late wife, positioned on top of a small table. The family presumably said their goodbyes to the portrait before they left each morning, Thorin thought.

Bard’s son Bain, and youngest daughter Tilda, were out in the garden picking the ripe harvest for their evening meal. He had urged them stay outside during the negotiations with the Witcher, though introductions were had before he sent them on their way.

“So, what can you tell me about this contract?” Thorin enquired, leaning back on his chair and taking a long draught of mead.

Bard gripped his tankard but did not drink. His brow furrowed as he gazed into the ripples of the honey coloured alcohol, hoping for the uncomfortable atmosphere to swallow him whole, or at least for the drink to answer in his place.

“It began at the start of autumn, when the biting winds came down from the northern mountains. Items started to disappear during nightfall- pieces of fruit, dried meats from the larder, pies left on windowsills to cool. We assumed it was a hungry animal raiding the supplies, or tomfoolery by the village kids.”

He slowly sipped his mead before continuing.

“Then, things other than food were taken. Crockery and cutlery, small tables, candles, even an armchair was removed, and they’re just the things that we know of.”

“What makes you think it’s a monster? Could it not be a desperate neighbour stocking up for the coming winter?” Thorin challenged, drumming his fingers against his tankard.

Bard shook his head, before daring to lock eyes with the golden, cat-like ones that scrutinised him.

“Nay. As chieftain, I conducted a thorough search of all the homes in the village, but the missing belongings were nowhere to be seen,” Bard replied, swallowing another mouthful, “but that’s not all.”

“Go on.”

“The culprit’s footprints never stayed consistent. One day they looked human, but after the next incident they’d appear more beastlike. Some days they seemed as though they were left by something ‘tween the two. We tried to follow the tracks but they often disappeared at the edge of a river, or vanished completely into thin air. There have been no attacks on the villagers, but I fear it’s only a matter of time.”

Sigrid nodded in agreement with her father as she reached for another honey cake.

Thorin hummed inquisitively and leant forward on the table, resting his chin on entwined fingers. “I think I’ve heard enough. Let’s talk about my pay.”

“Y-Your pay?” the sudden change in topic surprised Bard and he struggled to hold back a startled cough.

“As per the Witcher’s Code, I can’t work for free.”

Bard cleared his throat and inclined his head.

“Aye. The notice did promise coin for work well done. We’ve gathered 150 crowns as reward for ridding us of this persistent thief.”

“Hunts are best conducted only when you know what you’re hunting. Though, if more gold were to be offered, mayhaps I would consider taking the risk. 200 crowns and I will slay the monster.”

“You ask too much! Even-- Even as chieftain, I cannot raise another 50 crowns. We have given all that we have.” Bard bit back his exasperation, clenching his fist beneath the table. “Please reconsider.”

“175 crowns _and_ I will also return your belongings if possible, for good measure.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room as Bard deliberated the offer. It was still more than he could afford, but the situation would surely worsen over time, and the stealing had gone on for far too long already.

“You drive a hard bargain, Master Witcher… I’ll see what I can do,” he hunched forward and rubbed his temples, sighing heavily.

Had it not been common knowledge that only men could survive the mutations, Bard would have mistaken Thorin for a dwarf prior to his transformation. The Witcher’s fierce love of gold was apparent in the way his eyes and face lit up when the prospect of a higher offer was accepted.

“Forgive me, Thorin. I do not harbour any ill intent towards you personally. I have simply had bad dealings with a Witcher in the past, and I am reluctant to rely on one so heavily again.”

Thorin nonchalantly shook his head and waved off the man’s worries. “You are right to show me mistrust; not all Witchers are so morally bound as I. This other Witcher, he wasn’t perchance wearing a cat amulet?”

“It was a few moons back, but aye, I do believe so. Is that important?”

“Those of the School of the Cat are notoriously aggressive and cruel; no more than a cadre of murderers and psychopaths. Their terrible deeds have tarnished the reputation of Witchers. I, on the other hand, am from the School of the Griffin,” he motioned to a silver charm hanging around his neck, “a much more respectable faction, second only to the School of the Wolf.”

Thorin stood and dusted off his dark leathers before extending his hand across the table.

“On my honour, I give you my word that I shall fulfil this contract and return what is rightfully yours.”

Though hesitant at first, Bard mirrored his actions and the two shook hands, confirming the arrangement. Their grips were as solid and firm as one another’s, strengthened from years of sword and bow wielding, though Bard felt that Thorin could easily snap his wrist as if it were a mere twig.

As they retook their seats, the crushing responsibility that weighed upon Bard’s shoulders lightened somewhat. He would be glad once the village was free from the grasp of the monster, free from the iron chains that restricted their daily lives.

“Since the monster only steals at night, won't you stay for dinner?” Sigrid looked at the Witcher with pleading eyes as she wiped cake crumbs from her mouth.

Bard side-eyed Sigrid and shook his head in disbelief, lightly chuckling under his breath. She was as insistent and warm hearted as her mother had been, and just as beautiful too.

“Master Thorin, we shall share drinks and break bread together tonight. Then, I’ll take you the last place we found tracks when the moon is nigh.”

Thorin dipped his head and raised his cup in salute before gulping down the last mouthful. Monster hunting was a taxing and solitary profession, seldom did he have the opportunity to share meals or partake in jovial gatherings, even with other Witchers. The last time he had met with the remaining Griffin School members, some decades ago, they had become so intoxicated and nauseated, that they had sworn off drinking together again. In truth, Thorin wasn’t sure whether they were even still alive.

“You’re a good man, Bard the Bowman,” Thorin said softly, dropping his gaze to his empty tankard. “I can see you care deeply about your family, and this village.”

“Bowman?”

“Your reputation precedes you. The bow and black arrows hanging from your wall are skillfully crafted, they are no mere hunter’s tools. You took on a wyvern and lived to tell the tale. ”

Bard’s cheeks grew flushed and he too averted his gaze, staring searchingly out of the open window. Compliments had always made him feel uneasy, like he was a pretender, being praised for false deeds. He had never wanted extravagant tales to be told about the incident, nor had he wished to be elected as chieftain of this quiet village. He’d merely done his duty and saved his family. Nothing more, nothing less.

“I shan’t be doing it again! I barely escaped by the skin of my teeth. I’ll stick to hunting deer and boar, and leave the monsters to the professionals,” he proclaimed and turned his attention back to his guest.

“Rightfully so. Else we Witchers would be out of a job and out of coin! Though, I am curious as to how you managed to slay the beast without any silver arrows. Those black ones are indeed puzzling.” Thorin said with a questioning tone, as he raised a quizzical brow.

“I just got lucky, tis all.”

Sensing the sudden change in Bard’s demeanour, Thorin decided against pressing further and dropped the topic, focussing on refilling his tankard instead.

“Da, you killed a wyvern! Don’t be so modest,” Sigrid scolded and ushered Thorin closer. “I’ll tell you the story, Mr Witcher, if you’d like?”

As she began to recount the tale, Bard groaned heavily and slouched back into his seat, folding his arms across his chest in a defensive motion. It was going to be a long and arduous afternoon.

 

_______________________________________

 

The rising moon cast a ghostly silver shimmer over the settlement. Thorin and Bard crept behind one of the furthermost houses in the village, far from slumbering villagers. The building was abandoned, destroyed during a freak fire decades ago, and now only charred timber and collapsed walls remained. Bard explained that a travelling Seer once declared the ruins cursed upon passing through, and from thereon the villagers became too frightened to renovate the property. Thorin scoffed at the notion, more so when his amulet failed to react to the presence of the building, indicating nothing magical of the sort.

They circled past the house, crouching lower to the ground as they moved on slick grass. The skies had opened before their evening meal and drenched the land for a full hour. Though thankful to have been inside during the storm, Thorin now feared that the rains may have obscured the monster tracks. He’d insisted on leaving Bard’s home immediately after the rain had lightened to a fine drizzle, despite Sigrid’s worried protests of them catching cold.

Bard led him to the back door of the adjacent dwelling, a small cottage owned by the village’s oldest resident. She was a woman of unsound mind, shunned by the village for her delirious rantings, and was the only person willing to live near the supposedly condemned building.

The monster had left a set of footprints leading from the door to the edge of the clearing they stood in, and then the tracks disappeared between the dense trees. After the rainfall, all that remained was a set of misshapen muddy puddles, with no clear indication as to what left them.

“Damn!” Thorin cursed through gritted teeth.

Knees sank into sodden ground as Thorin knelt and touched the water’s edge, focusing his enhanced senses. To his dismay, the familiar smell of petrichor overpowered and masked the scent of the creature. Even for him, there were no absolute leads to the whereabouts of their mysterious thief.

“Rain’s disturbed the prints. I can’t distinguish them, nor can I track the beast’s scent. All I can see is the obvious that it disappeared into the forest,” Thorin reported, his tone tinged with annoyance.

Bard squatted beside him, resting his arms across his legs for balance.

“They appear more like beast than human, but I’m no Witcher. I suppose that’s of little help though, when you consider how many monsters now roam these lands.”

Thorin grunted, in what Bard assumed was agreement, as he intently examined the watery tracks. They were broader than a human foot, almost bear like in size, but more angular and less round. Whatever it was was surely bigger than a mere human could handle.

“Go home to your family, Bowman. If there is a chance the thief could strike again tonight, you should be with them,” his expression and voice were stern as he slowly rose to his feet.

“But--”

“You have hired me to take this contract, so let me do my job. Go home. I will continue my search in the woods, and perhaps luck will have it that I cross paths with the monster.”

Knowing better than to argue with a Witcher, Bard silently nodded and straightened out of his crouch. Then, he turned on his heel and strode back towards his house, mustering all his will to resist looking back over his shoulder. Time would tell whether the Witcher would return or not.

Once Bard was out of view, Thorin left the village glade and entered the surrounding woodland, watching his footing as he navigated the slippery foliage.

Moonlight filtered through the canopy and illuminated rolling water droplets on the leaves, beads of rain falling back to earth. Pools of light revealed long, gnarled roots sprawled across the mossy ground, and a low mist coiled around the trunks of the lichen rich trees. The air was thick and heavy with centuries of age, and Thorin felt as if a serpent was constricting his chest with every breath he drew. Save for his own heartbeat, a deafening silence encased the forest. Neither bird nor beast stirred in the twilight.

He suspected an ancient Leshen had once protected these woods, as he uncovered an long-forgotten warding totem entangled in an overrun grove. The figure was constructed from animal bones and branches, in a triangular arrangement with a deer skull mounted at the vertex, creating a strong resemblance to the creature it empowered. Though it seemed that the Relict no longer inhabited the land, its spirit and essence still lingered.

Traversing further into the heart of the forest, where the tree crowns grew denser and swallowed the moonlight, Thorin uncorked a vial of green liquid from his hip satchel and ingested the potion. Cat, the most commonly brewed Witcher concoction, allowed the user to see in total darkness after imbibing.

The terrain burst into monochromatic light as his eyes imitated the vision of the potions namesake, increasing the brightness and contrast of his surroundings. Before him, now clear as day, he observed a trail of impressions in the mossy earth. They somewhat resembled the distorted puddles back in the village, large and angular, but undisturbed by the heavy shower. The print was two-pronged, comparable to a bird's, with a large indent left by the back digit. Three monsters possessed similar podiatric anatomy: wyverns, griffins and cockatrices.

Thorin bent besides the tracks and honed his senses, allowing the aromas and melodies of the forest to wash over and enshroud him. He detected a faint miasma of venom clinging to the imprints, a signature toxin of the wyvern. Unlike their larger, fire breathing counterparts, wyverns were able to spit venom from a large distance, and incapacitate opponents with the venomous trident at the end of their tail. Though odorless to humans, the toxin prickled Thorin’s nose with every deep inhale, despite the weakness of the lingering scent.

The tracks and odour led him to a grassy sloping riverbank, where they entered the gently flowing water, but did not emerge on the opposite side. The prints simply vanished, just as Bard had said. Thorin scrupulously flicked his golden eyes over the arboraceous surroundings, gauging the likely routes the beast would have taken. Many of the trees in the area had been cloven and flattened, creating paths bordered by the resulting debris. He deliberated whether the creature was taking flight whilst still within the river, or was re-emerging onto land further downstream to further mask any evidence of its location. In any such case, hunting the elusive wyvern would prove a more difficult task than he had first anticipated.

A few yards down river, a grand ancient oak lay fallen across the water, bridging the two halves of the forest together. Its unearthed roots splayed out in all directions, once desperate to find soil, but the tree had long since died and withered. Thorin warily clambered onto the trunk and began crossing, guardedly testing sections one step at the time, akin to walking on fracturing, thin ice.

Mid way across the bridge, an ear splitting hiss caused Thorin to forsake all caution and dive to safety on the opposite bank. He hurriedly concealed himself within a nearby bush of juniper and briar, disregarding the thorns that scathed and tugged at his leathers. Peering through the netting of foliage, he observed a wyvern swoop downwards at breakneck speed, and land in the shallows of the river. The beast was armoured with ebony tipped spikes that protruded along the spine and tail, contrasting with the reddish hue of its scales and wing membranes, and possessed one larger horn between its nostrils. Unlike a dragon, the wyvern stood tall on two muscular hindlegs, and fought fiercely with dagger like talons.

Broadening ripples lapped the slopes of the bank as the draconid scanned the area for signs of immediate danger.  Between rows of conical teeth, many of which pointed outwards from its jaws, the wyvern carried a small, handmade footstool. Thorin’s eyes were filled with bewilderment as he watched the wyvern delicately adjust the furniture within its mouth. He half expected the creature to have punctured and splintered the wood between its crushing jaws, but the stool, to his amazement, remained perfectly intact.

Satisfied there were no threats present, the monster began wading downstream, stretching to keep its upper body above water so as not to dampen the stool. Once certain he was out of its field of view, Thorin crawled out of the bush and swatted away the brambles that gripped his clothing, breathing a soft sigh of relief. It would seem that luck was on his side, to bring his evasive target so quickly within his grasp.

Stalking low to the ground, he stealthily followed along the grassy riverbank, allowing the rich layers of vegetation to muffle the sound of his movements. The river snaked and twisted until it ran into a small cave, where he observed the wyvern bow its head and enter. The entrance was barely tall enough to accommodate the creature that dwelled within, and it puzzled Thorin as to why it wasn’t nesting on a mountainside somewhere like the rest of its kin.

He edged closer to the mouth of the cave, silver blade already in hand, slathering the metal in a coating of draconid oil as he went. With this coating, every slash of his sword would deal additional damage to the wyvern, like an assassin adding poison to his blade.

The primary tunnel was long and wide, limestone and dolomite eroded from centuries of buffeting from the river. Stalactites hung from the roof like stony icicles, though many of their tips had been snapped off, presumably by the wyvern. To the left, above the water's surface, a stone path had been carved from the wall, allowing one to traverse further into the cave without having to wade through the river. As Thorin reached the end, the tunnel opened into a larger, spacious cavern, illuminated by several lit torches. Numerous other passages branched off from the main chamber and led to places unseen. The river came to an end here, forming a deep dive pool that glistened with the reflection of bioluminescent plants that grew overhead, glowing like thousands of stars.

Thorin expected to find a grotto full of discarded armour and human remains, with a wyvern perched upon a mound of bones, but was surprised to find that cave was nothing like he anticipated. Wreaths of fragrant wild flowers and leaves decorated the walls, and the chamber was furnished with an array of wooden and leather tables, chairs, storage units, and a bed. A particularly wellmade fabric armchair was positioned in the centre of the room, in front of a roaring hearth whose smoke escaped through a small skylight cut into the ceiling of the cave. Thorin inquisitively approached behind the armchair, treading as softly as possible, and peered over the back. A young man was snuggled into the chair, feet propped up on a stool - identical to the one the wyvern stole - with an open book resting on his knees. In his hand, resting on the arm of the chair, a lit pipe sent out tendrils of smoke.

The disappearance of the wyvern perplexed Thorin, though he knew logically the beast could not vanish into thin air. Then, he remembered that druids were known to revere wyverns, and would capture and keep them to use in rituals and spells. Perhaps this man was in fact a follower, and the draconid was being held in one of the other tunnels that branched off from the cavern.

“Tell me druid, where’s the wyvern?” Thorin demanded, raising a skeptical brow.

The man yelped in surprise at the unexpected voice, sending his book clattering to the floor and knocking over his pipe, ashes drifting down like snowfall.

“I-I’m not a druid, and there is no wyvern!” the man retorted, trying to bite back the trembling in his voice as he jumped from his chair and turned to face the stranger. “And you, sir, are trespassing in my home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of specific Witcher terms in order of appearance:
> 
>  **Igni sign** \- a pyrokinetic burst that can ignite and repel enemies, also used to start fires  
>  **Trial of Grasses** \- the process in which children are subjected to special alchemical ingredients in order to become Witchers  
>  **Yrden sign** \- forms a magical trap on the floor that causes knock back, slow, and damage when triggered  
>  **Axii sign** \- a sign with a hypnotic and calming effect  
>  **Law of Surprise** \- a Witcher custom, in which someone who is saved but cannot pay is to offer their saviour a boon whose nature is unknown to both parties
> 
> Thank you for reading the first chapter, I really appreciate it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you for all your support~ thank you for reading, bookmarking, and for leaving kudos and comments. I'm glad that people are enjoying it <3
> 
> I tweaked around with the Witcher lore a little bit in this chapter to suit the story, BUT it's still pretty canon I guess ヽ(〃･ω･)ﾉ
> 
> There's so much angst, but fluff is gradually building up, also look out for the ~drama~
> 
> Big thank you to [Ciara](http://www.erenfanclub.tumblr.com) and [Chu](http://www.ohthatboychu.tumblr.com) over on tumblr, I would literally get nothing done if I didn't have you two to beta for me!
> 
> [Come say hi to me on tumblr too!](http://www.seuikune.tumblr.com)
> 
> Also, a list of explanations for Witcher specific terms can be found at the end of the chapter in case you're not clued up

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as the two opposed one another, the stranger averting his gaze as he fiddled with the rolled up cuffs of his sleeves. Thorin studied the peculiar man  before him, noting his finely woven beige shirt, accentuated by the wine red suspenders of his trousers. Not the typical garb one would expect of a druid.

“Trespassing? This is a cave,” Thorin stated bluntly, first to disrupt the stillness.

“Quite so. I live here, and therefore you are an uninvited guest strolling through my home,” the shorter man replied, as he knelt and fussed over the fallen book and pipe, muttering quiet curses beneath his breath.

Thorin paused briefly, perturbed by the turn of events. By now, the monster could have been slain, fallen by his silver blade, and thus he should have been on his way to collect his reward, trophy in hand. Instead, he was quarreling over property and ownership in a dimly lit cave.

It was not remarkable for a druid to live in solitude or in small isolated groups. The scholars of the forest preferred to dwell in secluded cabins or groves with like-minded people, away from the prying eyes of those who did not understand nature’s workings. What was unusual, however, was for a single follower to occupy such a large cavern, that had been furnished with lavish possessions and paraphernalia, contradicting the druid way.

“Living arrangements aside, I’m hunting a-“

“A wyvern, yes, yes, and I’ve already told you, there’s no wyvern here. Nasty creatures they are; they’ll spit at you and make you sick for weeks, if the venom doesn’t kill you first. No. No wyverns here,” the man insisted, as he respectfully picked up the book and dusted off the cover with a gentle sweep of his hand.

“Well, Master-?”

“Oh! Baggins. Bilbo Baggins.”

“Master Baggins, I’ve been hired to slay a wyvern that has been raiding a local village. A wyvern which I tracked and followed right into this very cave,” Thorin declared, motioning to his silver blade still drawn, the draconid oil gleaming in the torchlight.

Bilbo had picked up his wooden pipe and was chewing on the lip, testing whether the chamber and shank had become damaged during the fall, but unexpectedly choked and spluttered at Thorin’s words.

The Witcher quirked a brow at the outburst, narrowing his watchful eyes with suspicion as Bilbo struggled to regain his composure.

“Ah, well, yes… ahem, ah, hmm,” Bilbo awkwardly sucked on the pipe once more and glanced around, rocking back and forth on his soles. “I, erm, think you should be on your way. Better try a different cave, eh? As you can see there is no wyvern here. Good evening, sir.”

Before Thorin had the chance to respond, Bilbo hastily turned and slid back into the armchair, burying his nose into the musty book. His breathing was shallow and his pulse rang loud in his ears, like a hundred drums beating from within his skull. Beads of sweat prickled his forehead and dampened the thick brown curls that framed his face.

With the abrupt reluctance to speak, and the desperation in which Bilbo urged him to depart from the cavern, Thorin determined there was more transpiring here than Bilbo was willing to divulge. Countless tunnels split off from the main chamber, creating a natural labyrinth, so it was foolish to disregard the possibility that any number of those passages could harbour the wyvern. He would need to scout the terrain and find a new lead to the whereabouts of the draconid, even if it meant deceiving his new acquaintance.

“Thank you for your time, Master Baggins, I shall see myself out.”

Bilbo hummed low in agreement and raised a hand in farewell, not daring to tear his eyes away from the dog eared page, lest he become ensnared in another interrogation.

Thorin sheathed his weapon and slipped out of the cavern, as quiet and fluid as a predator stalking prey. The darkness of the new tunnel cloaked him shadows that the flickering light of the torches could not touch. From the blackness, he peered back into the chamber and silently observed Bilbo poke his head above the chair, anxiously glancing around, his pale knuckles gripping the crest rail. His behaviour was comical, almost childlike, Thorin thought.

Round, hazel eyes searched for confirmation of Thorin’s absence, momentarily lingering on the passage entrance where he crouched, before flicking over the rest of the cavern. Content that his unwanted guest had excused himself, Bilbo sighed softly and sank back into the seat, wispy smoke rings beginning to rise above the armchair.

Confident that he was unseen, Thorin straightened out of his crouch and wandered further into the labyrinth. As the potency of Cat began to dwindle, so did his ability to navigate the darkness unhindered. Colour returned to his vision and he glimpsed the scandent vines glowing azure overhead, though their light was limited and could not illuminate the gloomy floor. The limestone was cold and smooth to touch as he brushed his fingertips along the tunnel wall, extending a hand to steady himself.

How human he felt, stumbling through the blackness.

At the end of the passageway the tunnel opened up into a large cavern, similar to the one where Bilbo resided, where the path suddenly dropped off to a set of stone platforms below. Moonlight filtered in through a crumbling section of the cave’s roof and brightened the room with a silvery glow. Flecks of dust danced through the shaft of light, rising and falling in the gentle breeze from the skylight. Columns of polished stalactites jutted down from the ceiling and pierced the ground, surrounded by jagged formations of stalagmites and needle-like anthodites. The walls, coated in centuries of deposited sheets of flowstone, gave the impression of melting stone.

Thorin cautiously lowered himself onto the dais beneath and entered the chamber. As he stepped forward, something crunched beneath his boot with a sickening noise. Lifting his foot, he realised that an immeasurable number of discarded bones and skulls lay strewn across the floor, many stained a rusty colour from dried blood. The unmistakable metallic taste saturated the dense air, accompanied by a pungent smell that burned his lungs as he shallowly inhaled.

Confusion twisted his features as he slowly looked around. The scene was more like he expected when he first entered the primary cave, but this modus operandi didn’t quite fit that of a wyvern. Draconids were noble creatures, who took pride in the condition of their lairs, often gathering waste - like bones and corpses - to form one mound for nesting upon. It was unheard of for a wyvern to leave their burrow in such a miserable state as this.

The cracking of bones underfoot echoed throughout as Thorin tried to maneuver around the remains for closer inspection. No fresh corpses or pools of blood spattered the floor, and the bones that littered the ground were covered in a thick, undisturbed layer of dust. Some creature with a taste for human flesh once occupied the cave, but it had long since been abandoned, and there no signs of the wyvern.

As he returned to the stone steps, the thought of Bilbo suddenly crossed his mind. How could he live in a chamber adjoining to such a macabre scene? Had he not ventured into the labyrinth further than his own ‘home’, and was blissfully unaware of the horrors that lurked? Or perhaps he wasn’t a druid at all; this cave would be perfect for a necromancer to exploit. Thorin shook his head and laughed under his breath. The former was the only plausible scenario, for the man appeared the type who would be startled by his own shadow, let alone willing to explore an unknown network of pitch black caves or dabble in dark magic.

Outstretching his arms to heave himself up onto the next platform, a sudden deafening hissing sound reverberated along the passageway ahead. Without the use of cat, he was blind as he stared into the darkness. With each passing second, the noise grew closer and louder, bolstered by a symphony of thuds and crashes. Thorin instinctively let go of the stone edge and dropped to his feet in a feline-like manner,  before distancing himself from the entrance and drawing his blade.

Eyes fixated on the gaping blackness, Thorin flexed his fingers and adjusted his grip, bracing his stance for the impending attack. Adrenaline surged throughout his body, heightening his senses, just as before in his fight with the warg.

Whatever came through the passage would meet its end by his hand tonight.

With a thunderous cry that vibrated Thorin’s ribcage, a huge wyvern hurtled through the archway and landed behind the Witcher. Bones and rocks alike scattered from the impact as the beast scrabbled along the gravelly floor, struggling to maintain its footing. The rush of air from its mighty wings whipped around Thorin, and he raised an arm to shield his eyes from the airborne dust and grit. As he slowly dropped his arm and spun on his heel, he was greeted with a beak full of razor sharp teeth.

Thorin grunted and retreated a step backwards, widening the distance between them.

“What now, wyrm?” he goaded, pointing the end of his silver blade at the creature’s throat.

The wyvern reared up on two hind legs in retaliation and proudly unfolded its broad leathery wings with a deafening roar. Unlike a dragon, wyvern’s only possessed one bone in their appendages, and a thick, arterial rich membrane stretched between their bone and body. Rugged, adamantine scales plated the draconid, except for the face, joints and underbelly, where it was protected by a tough weathered hide.

Thorin had never had the honour - or misfortune - to face a true dragon. The mythical beings of chaos were few and far between across the continent, many scholars believing the fantastic beasts to be nothing more than fanciful tales. However, Witcher accounts of dragons were passed down through generations in each school, with many adopting the philosophy to never hunt the creatures.

Where wyverns and dragons differed the most, was not their fabled status, nor their ability to belch flame, but was in their sentience and promptness to attack humans. Dragons rarely posed a threat to humans; rather, it was humans who threatened their existence. Wyverns, on the other hand, were quick to anger and would repeatedly attack lone travellers and small farm holds. Nevertheless, to see a draconid, albeit a smaller and less powerful one, unfurl to its full size, was still an impressive sight for all who laid eyes upon it.

Furiously thrashing its tail, the wyvern snapped in warning. Deep, rumbling growls erupted from within, as the odour of noxious venom escaped in vaporous clouds from its jaws.

Nausea voluted through his gut as the fumes wafted around him. It felt as if his insides were being painfully knotted and stretched over and over again. He opened a leather bag that hung from his belt and rummaged around inside, pulling out an ampoule of Golden Oriole - a potion that rendered the drinker immune to poisons and toxins. Wiping his watering eyes with the heel of his palm, Thorin imbibed the sandy coloured liquid and instantly felt the relief of the venom being neutralised.

The wyvern impatiently snapped again, exerting enough force that Thorin could hear the air rushing out from between its teeth with an audible thud.

He placed the empty vial back into his bag and began circling the wyvern, keeping at least a sword's length between them. With every half step that Thorin retreated, his opponent followed, relentless in its advances, all the while spewing repugnant gas. Confronted with an arsenal of weapons in an enclosed space, he had the disadvantage. Wyverns were extremely skilled and tenacious aerial and ground combatants, armed with dagger-like talons, a beak full of conical teeth, and venomous spikes at the tip of its tail.

Bored of the chase, like a cobra ready to strike, the draconid raised up and drew back its serpentine neck. Even with Thorin’s skill, at such close range it would be impossible to block a full force lunge attack. In blur of movement, Thorin cast a protective shield of _Quen_ and leapt passed the monster, slashing once with sweeping arc of his blade. He rolled into a crouch behind the wyvern and quickly turned for another assault, brushing away sweaty hair that clung to his face.

The beast stood stunned for a few seconds, unable to react. Blood trickled down from a gash below its right eye and splattered onto the floor. Suddenly, the wyvern came to its senses, hissing and recoiling from the Witcher as it pawed at the wound with its wings, smearing blood over the spar bone.

He had hit his mark.

Thorin rolled his shoulders and altered his grip on the pommel, preparing for a counterattack. Yet, before he was able to take one step, something remarkable happened.

The wyvern slumped forward and began to twist and contort itself before his very eyes. Large wings folded and shrivelled into arm-like appendages. The once thrashing venomous tail became limp and receded into its body, whilst its dorsal and facial spikes sank back into its skin. Reddish scales smoothened out into pale flesh, and the creature seemed to wither and crumple into a mass on the floor.

When all was still, Bilbo knelt in place of the wyvern, clutching his cheek as blood oozed between his fingers and streaked down his face and hand.

“You… you cut me...” Bilbo mumbled, wide eyes staring at the floor in shock.

Thorin sighed heavily and rubbed his creased forehead with his free hand. Not a druid, or a necromancer - not that that was really an option - but a vexling.

Bilbo Baggins was a shapeshifter.

 

_______________________________________

 

Like scalding water, the brandy soaked gauze stung and burned the open wound, causing the surrounding skin to radiate with an uncomfortable prickling sensation. Bilbo flinched and inhaled sharply, pursing his lips together and scrunching his eyes closed. As the gauze became sodden with fresh blood, Thorin discarded it into a bowl on the floor and held a new sterile bandage against Bilbo’s face. His right cheek was swollen and bruised, purple and blotchy in contrast to his pale complexion. Thorin likened the swelling to that of a rodent storing food in its mouth, but chose to keep the opinion to himself, not wanting to send Bilbo into a fit of hysterics again.

After the grand reveal, Bilbo had passed out from the trauma and collapsed backwards onto a mass of bones and rocks. Thorin begrudgingly carried the shapeshifter back to his chamber, stumbling more through the darkness without a free hand to steady himself, and had propped Bilbo comfortably in his armchair. Bilbo then only reawakened when Thorin, after rifling through numerous cupboards and acquiring a bottle of fruit brandy and bandages, poured the first cup of alcohol onto the hemorrhaging wound.

“It’s a terrible shame to waste a good bottle on something other than drinking. 1233 was such a good year for brandy, I’d been saving it for a special occasion,” Bilbo sighed as he slouched in his armchair.

“This is your own fault, but I can stop if you’d prefer? Then you can drink the rest and let infection settle and fester in your wound,” Thorin growled, wiping the gauze across the gash with more pressure than necessary.

Bilbo inhaled sharply again and shot sideways daggers at the Witcher.

“You did that on purpose. And it is not my fault, you’re the one who cut me!”

Tossing aside the used bandage, Thorin kept a slate face and patted Bilbo’s cheek dry with a clean cloth. Resting inside against the edge of the hearth, a sewing needle had been left to sterilise in the roaring flames. Thorin carefully picked out the needle, letting the metal cool slightly, before threading a thin alcohol soaked piece of string through the eye.

“Be still for a moment, this is going to hurt,” he warned, squeezing the wound closed between thumb and forefinger.

Bilbo nodded and braced himself.

The needle pierced the flesh, as smooth as a knife cutting through butter, and emerged through the skin on the opposite side of the cut. Despite his large, calloused hands, Thorin’s fingers moved deftly, weaving the needle in and out until a row of neat stitches kept the cut together. Once finished and satisfied with his work, he cut off the remaining thread with a small dagger that hung from his belt, and placed a large rectangular bandage over the wound, securing it in place with strips of tape.

“You’re good at this,” Bilbo reluctantly praised, lightly tracing his fingertips over the soft cotton.

Thorin shrugged as he gathered up the needle and thread into the soiled bowl by his feet, “Witchers who can not patch themselves up don’t last too long.”

Bilbo studied the curious man who sat on the footstool beside his armchair. Thorin’s features were well defined; his nose was dwarf-like in size, but long and slender, accentuating his high cheekbones. Amongst wavy hair, braids of black and silver tousled past his shoulders, kept in shape by clasps of silver and mithril. A dark, well-kempt beard grew along his sculpted jaw, and framed beneath similar thick eyebrows, deep golden eyes stared back at the startled shapeshifter. He had a kingly profile, Bilbo thought, more befitting of a nobleman than a… Witcher?

Shock rooted him to the spot. Why had he not noticed the yellow feline eyes before? They were an obvious characteristic of the monster hunters.

“I did not realise that you were a Witcher. That explains why you did not flee when confronted with the jaws of a wyvern.”

“Thorin Oakenshield, at your service,” he habitually dipped his head and leant forward, resting his arms along the length of his thighs. “Tell me, Master Baggins, how do you not recognise when a Witcher stands before you?”

“It was quite dark when you first appeared, I couldn’t see your eyes very well! Otherwise, I would have known straight away,” Bilbo grumbled, his cheeks becoming flushed with embarrassment.

“Mhm, I see. So it is only the eyes that give us away? Not the distinctive two swords that we carry, or the silver medallion around our necks?” Thorin quipped, lifting the griffon head pendant and rotating it between his fingers in the torchlight.

Bilbo huffed and crossed his arms, expression darkening.

“Yes, yes, forgive me if I haven’t come across many Witchers. If I had known, I wouldn't have foolishly shifted and tried to scare you--”

“It is not only Witchers that you need to fear,” the Witcher interjected, features suddenly touched with austerity, “mercenaries or witch hunters could have also approached your monstrous form and tried to kill you. Steel can still cause damage to yourself if wielded properly.”

As if on cue, the wound pulsated sharply. Bilbo flinched, instinctively unfolding his arms and pressing his fingers against the bandage, hoping to subdue the discomfort. He had already tasted the bite of a sword tearing into his flesh and felt the searing pain. As a supernatural being, he was particularly susceptible to a silver blade, though he didn’t wish to be struck by a steel one either.

“I’ll bear that in mind, though I don’t think I shall be shifting into a wyvern again anytime soon.”

Thorin grunted and rose to his feet, picking up the bowl of bloodied bandages, and headed into the kitchen area of the chamber. With his back turned to the armchair, he prepared the soiled waste for incineration in the crackling hearth.

“Thorin…” Bilbo called out softly, after the silence had grown uncomfortable, “why did you spare me?”

Waiting with bated breath, a lump swelled and caught in his throat. It was as if his tongue had suddenly become too large and rubbery for his dry mouth. Colour slowly drained from his face as he balled his fists, nails digging into his clammy palms.

“It is against my personal code to kill sentient creatures, even if they are masquerading as a dangerous monster. You have not harmed me, nor any of the villagers, forasmuch I have no cause to slay you. If it had been under different circumstances however, vexling or not, I would have not shown mercy,” Thorin stated flatly, keeping his back towards the shifter.

A conflicting mixture of relief and unease rolled through Bilbo’s gut as he exhaled gently.

“Despite the kind-heartedness and timidness that nature endowed you with as a vexling,” Thorin continued, twisting his body and quirking an inquisitive brow, “I am surprised that you are able to shift into a draconid and act so convincingly. It is something of a rarity for your kind.”

During his travels, he’d come across few shapeshifters over the continent. Due to their complete metamorphosis into their preferred form, no amount of magical talismans or Witcher amulets could signal the presence of a vexling, as they emanated the same aura as their chosen host. Of those who Thorin did make the acquaintance of, their generous and humble personalities made them averse to partaking in blood shed and violence. Thereupon, many chose to take on the lifestyle of simple merchants or farmers, and live peacefully amongst menfolk.

As Bilbo opened his mouth to respond, Thorin cut in once more, leaving the shifter gaping like a fish out of water.

“Here. You look terrible. I shan’t be carrying you if you faint again,” he said, striding back over and thrusting a glass of brandy in Bilbo’s trembling hands.

Doing as was told, Bilbo lifted the tumbler to his lips and took a long sip. The fruity warmness of the drink washed over him and dissolved the knot in his throat. A light flush returned and reddened his cheeks, melting away the ghost-like pallor.

“T-Thank you… Ah, I was right about 1233 being a good year,” he sighed contentedly after another sip.

The Witcher bowed his head, resting his chin upon his hands as he settled back onto the footstool.

“I don’t suppose you’re hungry? I could quickly prepare us a meal, as I’m sure you have many things you wish to discuss,” Bilbo suggested, before finishing the remainder of the brandy.

“No. I couldn’t possibly--”

“Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all. I may not be proficient at stitching wounds, but I am a fine cook, if I do say so myself.”

Thorin closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, groaning deeply.

“Do not feel as if you owe me a debt, Master Baggins. I told you, I was merely following my code.”

“And I am following mine. It would be awfully rude to not offer food and drink to a guest whilst they’re beneath your roof. Even during these strange circumstances,” Bilbo said, his tone firm.

Thorin looked up, locking eyes with Bilbo. He could see the determination etched into his features. There was something in the way his nose wrinkled and brows pinched together that made Thorin feel this was a battle which he could not win.

“Fine, make your food. Though, nothing too extravagant. I don’t intend on staying long.”

There was indeed much to be discussed between the two, and Thorin didn’t have the strength nor energy to argue with the shapeshifter on a cold, empty stomach.

 

_______________________________________

 

The surrounding woodland was ablaze. Trees and shrubbery burned with brilliant colours of copper and gold, casting expansive black shadows that danced at their feet. Thick, billowing smoke smothered the area, choking the life out of the terrified villagers. Amidst the haunting cries and wails that echoed throughout the smoldering tomb, the roars of a mountainous dragon reverberated overhead.

Revelling in the sound of symphonious shrieks, the beast plummeted, revealing its arrow-embedded underside, as flames leapt from its jaws and scorched the buildings and land.

Bard crouched low to the floor, his children huddled together between his arms, covering their mouths with rags. As the dragon soared above and circled back round, a voice like thunder pierced his mind, rattling within his skull.

_I will claim your children, the same as I consumed your wife._

Bard tried calling out, shouting at the top of his lungs, but smoke burned the back of his throat and suffocated his words. He couldn’t breathe.

The dragon dived downwards, flaming jaws open and aimed at his family. He threw up an arm, shielding his eyes from the blinding light, and felt the erupting heat blister his skin. The smell of charred flesh turned his stomach.

Bard screamed again, but only air escaped from his mouth.

Then, the burning stopped.

Hesitantly, he lowered his arm. And there before him, crouched on blackened earth, was not a dragon, but a wyvern. Venom oozed between its teeth and dripped down its maw, pooling below in a deep footprint created by the draconid.

_Their lives are mine._

It opened its mouth - a gaping void - and spewed forth a torrent of venom and acid. The secretion sizzled and hissed as it splattered across their clothing and bare skin. Horrified, Bard could only stand and witness the gruesome scene unfold before his very eyes. Covered in large, bulging pustules, skin and muscle began to slough off and dissolve from his children’s bodies, leaving only their crumbling skeletons behind.

_You’re next, Bowman. You’re--_

Bard woke with a jolt. Sweat drenched his spine and chest, his underclothes sticking to his clammy skin. His heartbeat pulsated deafeningly in his ears, and it felt as if his thumping heart would explode through his ribs at any moment.

Bleary eyed, he compelled himself to move, swinging his trembling legs off of the armchair. Hours had passed since he left Thorin by the tracks of the surrounding woodland. After sending the children to bed, he’d fallen asleep on the chair by a lively fire. Now, only cinders remained, and the room was dark and bitterly cold.

As he rose to his feet, the image of his children liquefying flashed across his mind and he inhaled sharply.

Bard made a dash to their bedroom and flung open the door, eyes scanning the space frantically. At some point during the night, Tilda had snuck into Sigrid’s bed, and the two were snuggled together, their limbs intertwined. Bain remained in his own bed, legs and arms sprawled across the mattress like a starfish, his feet poking out beneath the blanket.

Bard released a held breath. They were safe. It was nothing but a nightmare.

Creeping into the room, Bard gently pressed a kiss upon each of their foreheads. They slept soundly, their dreams untouched by monstrous creatures. As he tiptoed back out, he glanced over his shoulder and smiled softly, his gaze lingering on their peaceful faces, before gently closing the door behind him.  

Though it had been only a dream, something sinister gnawed at the back of his mind. Wyverns were no strangers to his dreamspace. At least once a month, Bard would relive the day that his wife was cruelly taken from him. Killed by a wyvern’s venomous sting. The dream was always the same, never diverging. Yet this time a dragon razed the village first, and his children were snatched away instead. Was it a sign? An omen of something forthcoming?

He needed space to think.

Arming himself with his bow and quiver, Bard quietly snuck out of the house. The chill autumn wind hit him like a brick wall as he opened the door, knocking the air from his lungs. He sniffled and pulled the collar of his coat closer to his neck, before stuffing his hands deep within his pockets.

After wandering aimlessly through the silent village, letting his feet be guided by the glinting stars overhead, he found himself at the site of footprints. He had not intended to travel so far outwards, but it was as if something unseen, working in the shadows, had pulled him to this particular place against his will.

Bard crouched beside the misshapen tracks. They remained unchanged from when Thorin had examined them previously, but he felt as if something was different. Like a bolt of lightning, it suddenly struck him. He recalled the print left by the wyvern in his vivid nightmare- large and angular, three-pronged, with a distinctive indent left by the back digit. Though these impressions had been distorted by the heavy rainfall earlier, they beared enough resemblance for tension to seize his body.

Without a moment's hesitation, Bard drew his bow and entered the murky forest.

 

_______________________________________

 

A myriad of mouthwatering aromas wafted throughout the cave as Bilbo busied himself in the kitchen. Thorin occupied one of two chairs at the round dining table, which Bilbo had laid out with slate placemats, simple cream coloured crockery, and silver cutlery. A pitcher of iced water sat in the centre, beside a bottle of opened wine and two clean glasses.

“Won’t be long now,” Bilbo called over his shoulder, garnishing the dish in front of him with fresh chopped parsley.

Thorin hummed low in reply and poured himself a drink of water, emptying the glass instantly.

“Right, all done!”

Bilbo carefully carried over a tray bursting with various different sized bowls of food- golden, crispy potatoes, steaming chicken breast seasoned with thyme, a mixture of buttered sautéed vegetables, and a small jug of gravy. He slid it onto the table, conscientious not to drop the tray or disturb the table arrangement.

“I hope I’ve made enough. I haven’t cooked for anyone but myself in a while,” Bilbo said, nervously fiddling with the buttons on his rolled sleeves.

“It’s… more than I was expecting. I thought I said not to be extravagant,” Thorin grumbled, casting his eyes over the spread.

“Really? This is quite a normal meal for me. Please, help yourself.”

Bilbo took the opposite seat and motioned encouragingly to the dishes.

Thorin sighed and shook his head in disbelief. During his journeys, he’d grown accustomed to feasting on vegetable rich soups and broths; rarely did he have the opportunity to eat meat outside of that medium.

Everything smelt and looked delicious, sighing hot steam. His stomach growled in agreement.

Thorin leant forward and carved the tender chicken breast, cutting away a few large slices for himself. He then loaded up his plate with roast potatoes, and scooped a spoonful of sauteed carrots and broccoli on the side of the plate. To complete the meal, he lastly poured a thick coating of gravy over the food, seasoned with a pinch of salt and pepper.

Neglecting to fill his empty plate, the shifter attentively watched Thorin take a bite of potato and pause, eyes filled with wonderment.

“It’s good!” Thorin said finally, savouring the taste.

A relieved smile tugged at the corners of Bilbo’s mouth as he started to dish up his own meal, giving himself a smaller portion than the Witcher.

“Don’t sound so surprised. I told you I could cook.”

Thorin nodded and hungrily took another bite.

Bilbo chuckled, pleased with Thorin’s apparent appetite, and began to eat as well. An enjoyable silence stretched between them as they ate, interrupted only by the happy grunts and sighs over mouthfuls of food.

It didn’t take long for them to finish their dinner and empty their plates, save for a few lingering scraps. Bilbo leant back against his chair, nursing his full, warm stomach.

“So Master Baggins, now that we are both sated, let us talk. Why are you living in this cave, first of all?” Thorin asked, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

“I did have a house once, but it was destroyed a long time ago. I’ve moved a lot over the years, until I stumbled across this cave. Had to chase out a band of those small goblin things first, though.”

“Nekkers,” Thorin corrected, as he reached over and handed Bilbo a glass of wine.

Grotesque, primitive, small creatures, they could climb trees and also burrow underground. A lone nekker was harmless, but rarely did you come across an individual in the wilderness. They amassed in large tribes, lead by a larger, more vicious chieftain, who could turn the wild troupe into a deadly organised unit. Nekkers killed their targets by overwhelming them with sheer numbers and force, and would claw and pummel their victim to death. Many inexperienced Witchers had fallen prey to them.

“Right, nekkers. They seemed terrified when I shifted into a wyvern, so I managed to chase them out. They’ve never bothered to try and return,” explained Bilbo, taking the offered drink, “but as you know, I’m not the… best with blood and gore, so I’ve left that section of cave alone.”

He couldn’t bear to disturb the remains that rested there, despite how much he wanted to clear up the cave. When he’d first discovered the chamber, the gruesome sight had caused him to vomit and nearly faint from shock. Since then, he’d avoided that place at all times, until today.

“And the burglary?” Thorin prompted, tone firm.

“I’m not a burglar,” Bilbo mumbled, staring into the burgundy wine he cradled in his hands.

“Then what would you call breaking into someone else’s home and taking their belongings?”

“I wasn’t stealing! I’m just--... I’m just collecting what is mine...” his forehead was creased, brows slanted upwards in the centre as his voice trailed off.

Thorin couldn’t quite place what emotion was playing with Bilbo’s features. It didn’t seem like anger, or guilt, nor did he appear to be disconcerted by his questioning. If anything, a touch of sadness rose to mind.

“The furniture I took belonged to my mother,” Bilbo sighed heavily, taking a long draught before continuing, “she came from a wealthy estate, but chose to live out in the village when she married my father. Of course, she took many of her possessions with her when she moved, but when the villagers eventually discovered that she’d married a shapeshifter, they chased them out of town, ransacked their house, and then burnt it to the ground.”

Bilbo rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead and let out another long sigh.

“So the ruined house was yours?” Thorin asked after a moment of silence, his voice softer than usual.

“When I was a child, yes. Though, I don’t remember much of it. And I do much prefer living here now. I only wanted to reclaim what had once belonged to me.”

Silence settled between them once more as Thorin deliberated his next question. He curiously watched Bilbo wipe his eyes with the heel of his palm and wrinkle his nose. As golden and hazel eyes met, Bilbo’s gazed skittered away, his cheeks becoming flush.

“Do the villagers know?” Thorin said, breaking the quiet.

“No, no. I’ve never visited during the day, not at least in this form, and I suppose they all think my family to be dead, including myself. Besides, I doubt the people who lived there at the time are even still around anymore,” Bilbo gave a melancholy shake of his head, his bright eyes losing their shine.

“I see.”

“So what will you do now? You’ll lose your coin if you don’t turn me in.”

“I can’t unjustly kill you for the reward I’ve been promised, but neither can I allow you to carry on stealing, even if the items do belong to you. We’ll have to come to some arrangement with the village chieftain. He’s a reasonable gentleman, I’m sure he’ll understand if we explain the situation,” Thorin stated, his expression determined.

“Mhm. I should quite like to visit in my true form,” Bilbo agreed, stifling a yawn behind his free hand.

“Then, we’ll leave in the morning, but for now, we should rest. And, thank you for the meal.”

 

_______________________________________

 

A towering mass of bark, twigs and branches, wreathed in a cloak of leaves and vines, the treelike creature lumbered through the dappled morning sunlight of the forest.

Around its waist and neck, scraps of hide had been fashioned into a loincloth and hood, fastened in place with thick pieces of rope and leather straps. Piercing green eyes glowed from within two empty sockets of a weathered deer skull, however the skull was incomplete, missing the lower mandible. From the figure’s splayed antlers and branches hung bones and medallions, trophies of its previous victims.

With each reaching step, roots erupted from the impression left within the mossy earth, only to wither and die as the figure moved onwards. The creature lurched forwards, vanishing behind a tree, to reappear from another several yards ahead within a whirlwind of cawing crows.

Beasts paid no heed to the shepherd of the forest, for it showed no interest in them as it passed through the woods. Despite its monstrous appearance, birds nested and chirped merrily on the branches that protruded from its back like gnarled, wooden wings.

As the figure approached the babbling river that divided the woodland in two, it saw the numerous cloven trees, and let out a shrill wail that shook the very air around it. A conspiracy of ravens scattered from the canopy, flapping their wings in a frenzied madness.

Far off in the distance, a hungry wolf pack returned the haunting call of their master.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of specific Witcher terms in order of appearance:
> 
>  **Quen sign** \- casts a protective field around the caster
> 
> Thank you for reading, I really appreciate it!


End file.
